This is a feed from pomesonpoets, which is the name of the original blog. I called it "pomes" after the Pomes Penny Each of James Joyce. The aim of the blog is to capture moments with poets real or imaginary. I will continue to post on "pomes" and transfer the content here for those who may have searched for "poems". Thank you for visiting.

Wednesday, 10 June 2009

Alan Ginsberg Dream

29/07/07

Alan: I decided to write down those memories I recall from the non-ego memory e.g,

When I was so little I was barely a weight in my mother’s hand…..

Then, I see in my dream, the reader has a choice between hyperlinks to reach the end of the poem. The hyperlinks become feely bags you can reach into and pull out the poems. Some of the bags are shaped like Teddies. Joyce knows some of the poems – she comes in as I am pulling out the one above. I wake up.

1946

When I was so littleI was barely a weightin my mother’s hand

knitted shoesthe sizeof her thumb

the beating of her heartwas my Paris

the conversationof strangersLondon’s mighty roar.

1956

Being on the riverwith my mother whenshe was still youngenough to fallon the pavement, pickherself up & carry on –luckily her glassesnot broken.

Tall just up to hershoulder, sitting togetheron the wood-slat, cracked varnish seatsand reading the nameson the sides of bargesyachts & launches and sheknowing I am short-sighted, saying: “You mayneed glasses some day.”

196-

From the Summerof being fucked up what did I learn?That people we don’t knoware just as important as people we do,and other people’s mothers and fathers and best friends.

That night I travelled up the Northern Linethinking to sleep at my Auntie’s house:all locked up and silent, forgot she’saway the weekend – stalled me - I travelled way downthe Northern line to Oval, Cleaver Squareto tell Martin about my girlfriendand having nowhere to sleep –and chanting Martin, Martin to no effect, nowindow slung open in reply –

Up the Northern line, back up again –in Pond square I found aparked car – the replica of Martin’sblack 1950’s Morris his parents ‘d bought himsecond hand – knowing it’s not Martin’s carI get in and find there’s a neatly folded blanket on the front seat – curl up that summer nightin door-mouse comfort, feelinglike a Camembert in a picnic basketsleeping until 6.0 am, when I

thankful for this unlocked carin the morning when Ginsberg wasking of Czechoslovakia and the May – headed back past Highgate Cemetary toAchway, and Mum and Dad in Brightonfor the weekend, saying Ispent the night with a friend.